"Your father, Mr. Kirklan, always found them beneficial after a hard day at court. I remember one time when----But I mustn't be gabbing, when your nerves are jumping like that. I'll mix the toddy for you right off, sir." "And I'll go with you," said Gilmore. "You know, as many of 'em as I've had, I don't think I ever saw you make one." "There's a bit of a trick to it," Bates admitted modestly and shuffled toward the rear of the house, Gilmore at his slippered heels. A moment later the butler was performing a service for the author that, in the old days, he had performed many times for Kirklan's father. Kirklan wasn't so fond of liquor as his father had been. "A full measure of orange juice--like this," Bates was saying. "Two squares of sugar and----" He droned on, illustrating his formula, as Gilmore watched him dully. "Take one for yourself, Bates," he invited; but the butler shook his head. "They say it's a poor doctor that won't take his own prescription, sir; but it would upset me at this time of night. Thank you just the same, sir. Ah, there you are." He handed Gilmore the glass, the square of ice clinking, and the latter accepted it, sipping slowly. He did not gulp it down hastily, as Bates had expected. "Is Sarbella still here?" The butler looked bewildered. "Is he still here, sir? Why--why certainly, Mr. Kirklan. I took it for granted that he was down for a considerable stay. He retired to his room a little more than an hour after dinner." Gilmore nodded. "Oh, yes, of course," he murmured and took another sip of the toddy. "But I thought he might have gone. A little something happened--something that----My God, man, what's that?" His body had tensed, and the glass slipped from his fingers, as a look of horror spread over his face. Loud, shrill, blood-chilling, there rang through the house a terrified scream--a woman's scream. Bang! A sharp, staccato explosion reverberated through the night's stillness. Bates' thin legs were trembling beneath him, his mouth sagged open, and his eyes rolled wildly toward the ceiling as, struggling for utterance, he pointed a shaking hand upward. "That was upstairs!" he cried hoarsely. "Something--something terrible has happened upstairs. It was a shot. And that scream--I swear that it was Miss Joan's." Kirklan Gilmore stood, his muscles rigid, hands clenched at his sides, gulping hard. "Joan's scream?" he muttered. "No, Bates, no! Something tells me, man, that it was my wife. I tell you it was my wife. Quick, the stairs! I've got to know what happened; I've got to know. Come!" And, although it was Gilmore who urged haste, it was the butler who took the lead, heading for the stairs with a lame lope. "I--I can't understand it, sir," the servant chattered as he went along. "There's no weapon in the house except your shotgun; and that report--it wasn't loud enough for a shotgun. It must have been a pistol; I am sure that it must have been a pistol."